Earlier this year I took my first ever poetry writing class: How Writers Write Poetry, through the wonderful University of Iowa. This is from an exercise calling for a prose poem.
It was Springtime when my Springer Spaniel sprung. For every Spring there is a Fall and he did. His disk fell out of place, rubbing on his spinal cord, leaving his back legs to drag behind him. Before that Spring it was Winter and it was glorious to watch him spring for shovels full of snow, piercing an elevation where he didn’t belong, level with our heads, ruffling ears standing on end. When he could no longer spring, you could see that in his mind he still sprang because dogs are hopeful that way. Spring is eternal. Like the way that Fall knows Spring is coming or does it just know the Spring that was? No matter. It knows and it is and it exists always, like my Springer’s spring. And Spring springs just like my Springer, sprouting and bursting with life, shooting into the air, glorious to see, just like him. Spring springs even though it knows the Fall is coming. Would you want the leaves to stay in the bud just because soon enough they’ll be mulch? The leaves spring and my Springer sprang and it’s glorious and it lasts forever.